


Nunc Stans

by praiseofshadows



Series: that arthurian series I'm not writing [5]
Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2019-06-19 02:05:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15499908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/praiseofshadows/pseuds/praiseofshadows
Summary: A place for all my Arthurian ficlets.





	1. the waiting years

Arthur insists the boy winters at court with the rest of his brothers. Morgause argues Mordred is too young to be without his mother, but Arthur will not be swayed. He tells her that she is welcome to make the journey as well now that Lot is dead.

It is a neat trap: Arthur knows full well she will never come to court if she must bow and scrape and yield precedence to Leodegrance’s milksop miss.

So, as the last leaves of autumn fall, she fastens a vengeance charm about Mordred’s neck and sends him south on Orkney’s fastest ship.


	2. closed eyes

Mordred is a quiet thing, prone to following his brothers about like a solemn little duckling. Guinevere instantly adores him. 

“Can we not keep him? He’s almost old enough to be a page,” she asks Arthur. They are dining in private, for once. “Besides, Morgause will soon remarry, and she shan’t have time for him.” 

“Morgause shall not remarry,” Arthur says. It’s said with such a fierceness that Guinevere looks up from her plate. She has not been long married, but she knows from the set of her husband’s jaw, the hard press of his mouth, that Arthur is furious. 

But, though she herself has not been long married, she knows that Arthur is nothing like her father and she need not fear his fists. And so she continues, because she does not understand, “But she’s wealthy, young enough to bear more sons, and she’s your sister besides. And though I have never met her, she is reputed to be a great beauty. I confess I do not know much of men, but –” 

“Yes,” Arthur interrupts. “You know nothing of men, wife. And that is why you shall agree with me when I say she shall not remarry.” 

“Yes, my lord,” Guinevere says, though she does not, and she does not think she hides her resentment well for Arthur soon takes his leave of her.

But as Arthur did not say nay to her plan to keep Mordred for herself, she thinks their evening together did not go so very badly. It is obvious to anyone with eyes that Mordred is Arthur’s son, no doubt fathered upon some green-eyed Orkney wench during his campaign against Lot. And it is just as obvious that Morgause is doing her brother a courtesy by claiming the child as her own.

#

The next day, the king and his knights go hawking, and Gaheris and Gareth are needed to squire for their older brothers. Mordred is left very much to his own devices. Guinevere finds him in the kitchen gardens, half-heartedly feeding the crows with what looks to be the remains of his morning bread and honey. 

“How do you find Camelot?” Guinevere asks.

Mordred doesn’t answer her.

“A little lonely, I should think,” she says. “There are not many children here.”

“There are not _any_ ,” he says, as if confessing a great secret. “Not even among the servants.” He raises his great green eyes to her and looks so mournful when he says, “I’ve _asked_ ,” that she has to bite back a laugh.

She takes his hand and leads him back inside. It is true that Camelot is a very young court and there are few children Mordred’s age. Once Arthur’s peace proves it can last, children will be fostered at court a-plenty. And, of course, she hopes that Arthur’s excruciatingly awkward conjugal visits will soon take root so that Mordred will have a trueborn little brother. But younger siblings are never half so exciting as older ones. She herself took no interest in her half-sister until the child was almost five.

Of course, had her sister been as pretty of a child as Mordred, she might have paid her more mind. Mordred’s snow-white complexion contrasts pleasingly with Arthur’s dark hair; his features are delicate. He is a slight boy, true, but boys grow. She wishes for a moment that Mordred were a girl child so that she might keep him with her and her ladies always.

#

Over the course of the day, Guinevere learns that Mordred can play passably at tables, knows more letters than Guinevere herself, and pours beautifully, though when she asks, he confirms her suspicions that he is still too young to regularly be in service.

“I am to be Agravaine’s page,” he tells her. “Though not until next year at least.” He frowns, obviously repeating what had been told to him and adds, “And perhaps not even then, either, if I’ve not grown.”

Guinevere can see the wisdom of this. A slight boy, if clever enough, will not lose out from delaying training, especially if during the delay the boy grows less slight. Morgause is a sensible woman, though it’s high time that Mordred left his aunt and came to live with his father and stepmother. No doubt Morgause will protest as Mordred is a darling, but she will have to abide. Guinevere will command it if need be, and a woman as loyal to Arthur as Morgause obviously is will not disobey an order from her queen.


	3. the fair unknown

Guinglain is born blue and cold and in the darkest days of winter. The birth is hard, and Ragnelle fevers shortly thereafter. Morgause clears the room of all, even Mordred, thrusting the babe in his arms as she pushes him out. “See to the child, my son,” she says, “And I’ll tend to her.”

Mordred is no stranger to children, or even babes, but Guinglain is too still and too quiet. And so Mordred finds himself mouthing prayers to a god he does not believe in, as he dips clean cloth into goat’s milk and tries to get the child to suck. He’s been assured that a girl from the village will be available by sunrise, but the night stretches.

Gawain is next to useless, alternating between looking in on Florence and Lovell and continuously pacing the hall. 

“I told her we didn’t need another,” he says at one point. “I was happy with our two boys. Mordred, I was happy, wasn’t I? I didn’t give any indication that I wasn’t?” And it scares Mordred to see his stalwart brother so unsure.

But in the morning, the child still breathes and his color is better. By prime, the girl from the village is brought in, and after time at her breast, his color is better still. Morgause emerges from the bedchamber and says that Gawain may see his lady for five minutes and no more, at least not until the morrow, and Gawain aways with such rapidity that Mordred would swear that the hounds had been set upon him.

“She’ll live,” Mordred says because Morgause would ne’er allow Gawain the hope of the morrow if she did not know for certain.

“Aye,” Morgause confirms. “Though this will be her last child.” She looks at the babe, now back in Mordred’s arms. “He will live too.”


	4. you did your best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guinevere grasps at Lancelot’s sleeve. “Have you not seen?” she asks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follows [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13020003/chapters/35984751). warnings for sexual assault, victim blaming & period typical homophobia.

The fifth day of Christmas dawns clear and bright, and the king – restored to merriment and mirth now that the cold has temporarily broken – insists that the court assemble on the banks of the frozen river for a day of skating and sledging. 

The pages and squires are particularly excited about this, though Sir Gawain and Sir Yvain take swift measures to channel this exuberance into a set of loosely organized skating matches, especially after one small page – in his haste to get to the river’s edge before any of his peers – knocks down the queen’s newest lady. Lancelot helps her rise. He’s keen to recommend Galahad to her, as Galahad has hitherto taken no interest in any of the ladies of the court, preferring instead to hero-worship Sir Gawain. And while Sir Gawain is not by any means a bad knight to emulate, the man has n’er lacked for lands and income and thus has n’er needed to find himself a patroness.

Yet Galahad has already joined Sir Gawain and Sir Yvain, so Lancelot has no choice but to flirt – delicately, of course – with Lady Soredamors himself as he returns her to the queen’s care. And perhaps it is for the best that Galahad has made himself scarce for Lancelot’s lady is in a foul temper this morn.

Guinevere grasps at Lancelot’s sleeve. “Have you not seen?” she asks.

“Seen?” he repeats.

She tilts her fair head, and he follows with his eyes, understanding at once what the trouble is.

On the first day of Christmas, Guinevere had presented to the king a marvelous sable, so new the chalk still lined it. Lancelot had been the first to admire it, and he admires it still, though his eyes narrow at the man wearing it. For ‘tis Mordred and not the king who is wrapped in the sable’s warm folds. 

“And that is not all,” Guinevere says. “My lord husband made a present of his garnet ring as well.”

There are several things Lancelot could say, to soothe his lady’s anger and flatter her vanity, but they all die in his throat as he watches Mordred approach his son. Mordred carries with him a cup of steaming wine, fresh from Sir Kai’s cauldron, which he holds out to Galahad with both hands. Galahad has not the sense to flee, just stands there with a fond smile on his face, as Mordred works his dark magic.

#

It is not that Lancelot is unaware of how Mordred turns men to sin. After all, he had been witness to that very first time, when Mordred had been naught but a page, pouring wine to that e’er worthy knight Sir Caradoc. The man had been in his cups, true, but he had been drunk before and ne’er grabbed a page as he did Mordred that eve, bending him over the table as if he were a maid and pawing at his hose. It hadn’t gone far, of course; Sir Caradoc had been pulled off and taken to his quarters until the madness dissipated. Mordred had spent the rest of the night crying great crocodile tears that Sir Gawain had believed, because Sir Gawain always believed the best of his wicked family. But everyone at court could see, even if Sir Gawain couldn’t, that the boy was an affront to God, tempting good Christian men as he did.

Arthur had personally caned Mordred’s teasing backside bloody and then hastily packed the boy off to serve as squire to Sir Agravaine. Sir Gawain had protested, arguing that Mordred would fair far better under Sir Ector’s tutelage, but Arthur had remained firm. 

“Agravaine will beat out those sluttish tendencies,” Lancelot remembered the king saying. “I will not have him turn out like his mother.”

Lancelot had no doubt that Agravaine had tried his best, but when Mordred had returned to court a year later nothing had changed, save that Mordred was a little taller and had a broken arm besides. Sir Agravaine and Sir Galahad had come to blows over that, and in the end, while Mordred had remained Sir Agravaine’s squire, Sir Agravaine remained at court under his older brother’s watchful eye. Perhaps if Sir Agravaine had been granted leave to return to Carlisle with Mordred, Mordred might have turned out differently, but alas, Sir Gawain forbade any such thing, and the king, for reasons unknown to Lancelot, did nothing to gainsay his favourite nephew.

So yes, Lancelot is very much aware of the problem that is Mordred. He’s lost count of the times he’s seen a knight fall under Mordred’s terrible power, as reason and religion yielded to the dark lust of the enemy. He just ne'er thought that he would watch his own son become one of Mordred’s hapless victims. 

#

Lancelot tells himself he is overreacting, that his son does not understand what a danger Mordred represents. After all, Galahad was raised within thick cloistered walls, knowing only of Christ and Christ’s salvation. 

Still, that evening, after the court has dined together for the first time since Christmastide has begun, Lancelot invites his son back to his quarters for a game of backgammon. It is not something they have ever done before, but if the invitation surprises Galahad, Galahad does not show it.

“I know you like to count every man your friend,” Lancelot says, once they’re seated beside the fire, the game board between them. “But there are some men whose friendship is not worth cultivating.”

“As you say,” Galahad agrees. 

Lancelot continues, “Have you any familiarity with bestiaries?”

“Sir?” Galahad asks.

“Bestiaries,” Lancelot repeats. “I would think your lady aunt has a few in her library.” 

“She does,” Galahad allows. 

“And have you studied them?”

“On occasion,” Galahad says. He smiles. “If you are attempting to reassure yourself that I understand that foxes oft deceive birds, I can assure you – “

“I’m more concerned that you understand the dangers of partridges,” Lancelot interrupts. “Particularly male ones.” He finds himself unable to say more on the topic; it is unseemly enough as it is. 

“Ah,” Galahad says. Galahad leans back in his chair, dispensing with the game to focus entirely on Lancelot. It is clear that Galahad understands his meaning. His son is not as much of an innocent as all the court believes, and Lancelot is not sure if he is relieved or appalled. Galahad stares at Lancelot for several minutes before he says, a shade too sardonic for Lancelot’s comfort, “Consider me forewarned.” 

“So you will dispense with a certain friendship?” Lancelot persists.

Galahad stands. “Father,” he says. “It is late, and I shall take my leave before one of us says something we’re like to regret.”

“Galahad,” Lancelot says, desperation making him address the matter plain, “I need your word that you will forswear Mordred. _Immediately_.”

“I’m afraid that is something I cannot grant you,” Galahad says. He bows. “Goodnight.”


End file.
